


A Sentimental Journey

by Fire_Sign



Series: The World War II Tales [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: VE Day celebrations, because fluff.





	A Sentimental Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurora_australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/gifts).



> A continuation of the World War II ficlets. This one is inspired by about two lines and the general tone of Great Big Sea's Dance Dance. IT MADE SENSE IN MY HEAD. Historical accuracy continues to be shite. I'm leaning into it for this series.
> 
> For aurora_australis, who knows exactly what she did.

They are, by coincidence, both in London when the European ceasefire is announced. They are too world-weary to think this is the end--there are dark truths still to come from the continent, and the war in the Pacific that means more to their Australian lives, and the aftermath of war they’ve seen once before--but it is the start of the end.

She stands by the window, watching the celebrations on the street below and wearing his jumper. She is still, now, always, beautiful; he watches her from the bed and marvels that they have survived this. Rarely together, but never truly apart.

She turns, gives him the smile that promises mischief. Christ, he had missed that; he suspects his attempt to school his features into dry disapproval is not convincing.

"Come on, Jack, you’re taking me dancing,” she declares.

“Am I?”

He already knows which dance hall to go to--it’s busy and questionable and full of dark corners--but she would be disappointed if he capitulated too easily.

“Mhmm,” she says, moving away from the window to join him on the bed. She brushes kisses against his ear, down his neck. “We’ll dance all night then sleep until noon, and then we’ll face the rest of it. But for tonight…” her eyes flick down his body, and she smiles, “dance with me?”

They do. They dance and they dance, and when Jack occasionally retreats to a table for a drink and to catch his breath, he watches her dancing still. They dance until they no longer remember the bombs or the mud or the gaunt faces of war (past and present, in some ways there is very little to distinguish between them), until they are back at a police station in Melbourne, waltzing at the Grand in the afternoon, wrapped together in London after months apart. They dance until the last song begins and they are merely swaying in each others arms.

“ _Gonna take a sentimental journey, gonna set my heart at ease_ ,” croons the singer.

Her hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, stroking the skin of his back gently.

“Take me home, Jack,” she says, as if home isn’t thousands of miles away and still at war.

When he looks in her eyes, he remembers that it isn’t. 

And they don’t stop dancing.


End file.
